No Survivors
by Micky Fine
Summary: Nope. I can still talk. Still think. When I stop doing one of those then I’ll stop." Tony's immediate reaction to the sinking of the Damacles. Spoilers 7x01.


**Disclaimer**: Not mine in any way, shape, or form.

**Spoilers**: Truth or Consequences (7x01)

**Author's Note: **Just a brief one-shot to insert into Truth or Consequences. My first NCIS fic. Any reviews are welcomed.

* * *

Tony didn't really like bourbon. Vodka martinis (shaken and not stirred, of course) were good. Beer was good. Scotch was his drink of choice, but at Casa Gibbs it was bourbon or nothing and Anthony DiNozzo was not willing to go with nothing. He took a swig from the glass jar before him and then winced. The burn was still as bad as he remembered. But at least it served as a distraction from the pain caused by the hole in his chest. The damn puncture wound that had been carved by four words: there were no survivors. Just thinking them made his chest throb and his throat constrict painfully. He took another swallow of bourbon to loosen the lump but ended up choking on it instead. When the coughs subsided he rested his head in his hands, his eyes landing on his badge and gun which he had laid on the workbench when he'd come in. His badge glinted brightly under the lights except for where the black band obscured the metal. Technically, regulations stated mourning bands were only to be worn for members of NCIS, but he didn't give a damn. She'd been an agent just like him, even if her title hadn't reflected it. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her like he wanted to remember her with a mischievous grin lighting up her face as she sidled past him, always just violating his personal space. Instead, he saw the images from Morocco, as she was rolled into an ambulance with blood streaming down one side of her face. He squinted his shut eyes tighter and the image changed to her coldly enraged face as she'd held a gun to his chest in Israel.

"Damn it, Ziva. You never were cooperative," he muttered aloud as he opened his eyes and tilted the remains of the jar down his throat.

"You're not much better, DiNozzo," a familiar voice intoned from the top of the stairs.

"Evening, Boss. Care for a drink?"

Gibbs descended the stairs slowly without responding. Surveying the almost half-empty bottle that had been full two days ago, he shook his head in the negative.

"No thanks. And I think you've had enough," he added pointedly as Tony picked up the bottle.

Tony looked at him, his eyes slightly bleary and then purposely poured more of the amber liquid into the jar.

"Nope. I can still talk. Still think. When I stop doing one of those then I'll stop."

Gibbs stared at him impassively. Tony returned the look and then deliberately took a drink.

"You know, Boss, did you ever consider sugar-coating things? Or maybe just preparing people for bad news? Did you really have to be so blunt?"

"Would it make the news any easier to take if I did, DiNozzo?"

Tony snorted without humour, "No."

He went back to staring at his badge and took another swallow of bourbon. He could feel Gibbs still watching him but he didn't care. Gibbs could stare at him until Tony's hair caught fire from the intensity of his gaze, it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered.

"No survivors," he muttered under his breath. Suddenly fury flooded through him and he stood and threw the jar at the opposite wall.

"No survivors!" he shouted.

"I understood you the first time, DiNozzo," Gibbs stated dryly.

Tony whirled on him and continued shouting, "Did you really have to leave her on that tarmac? Leave her with the oh-so-delightful Dada David?"

"It's what she wanted."

"No, it's what YOU decided."

"Tony."

Tony took a shaking breath and then began to pace from the base of the stairs to the opposite wall and back again. Gibbs continued to watch him without a hint of emotion in his blue eyes. In the back of his mind, Tony recognised it as one of Gibbs' favourite interrogation techniques, but he couldn't muster enough emotion to care. He was consumed with anger. Anger at Gibbs, anger at Director David, anger at the twisted fates that seemed to be determined to torment him.

"We should have warned her."

"Warned her?"

"That she was cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Yes, Gibbs, cursed. You're just as familiar with the curse as I am. The women of NCIS. They're cursed as soon as they put on the jacket and baseball cap."

"Tony."

"Kate died. Blown away right in front of us. If I try even a little, I can still feel the warmth of her blood as it spattered on my face. I can still remember that grin she gave us right before Ari's bullet tore through her skull.

"Paula died. Saved our lives and was blown to smithereens in payment. I still have nightmares about it. No matter how fast I try to move that door always slams shut before I can reach it.

"Jenny died. I should have been there and wasn't. Instead, she had her own Wild West Show where the hero and the villains went down in a hail of bullets. Maybe she wanted it that way but still...

"And now Ziva is dead. She's dead."

With those last words, Tony's rage finally subsided and he collapsed against the sawhorse he had been sitting on earlier.

"Yeah, she's dead," Gibbs echoed, no hint of emotion in his voice.

"How can you sit there and not care?" Tony asked, his eyes searching every line of Gibbs' face hoping to find some shred of shared emotion. Perhaps Gibbs too felt this all-consuming anger towards a cosmos that seemed determined to rob their team of its women, leaving increasingly empty shells of men behind them.

"I do care," Gibbs replied quietly.

"Really? Because I can't tell."

Gibbs sat quietly across from him, his expression still unreadable. He didn't speak and instead waited for Tony to continue, knowing that he wasn't finished.

"You aren't doing what you always do. You're not ranting. You're not raving. You're not on the warpath."

"Warpath to where, DiNozzo? Give me a target. Right now all I have is the damn ocean and there's nothing I can do with that. Ziva wasn't shot. She wasn't blown up. She drowned."

"And it's my fault."

Gibbs looked at him and now there was sympathy in his eyes. It was as if he had known they would be coming to this point from the very beginning.

"It's my fault she's dead. If I hadn't shot Rivkin, we would never have had to go to Israel, and she would have stayed here. She'd probably still be mad at me but she would be alive."

"Ifs, woulds, and coulds. Don't play with those, DiNozzo. They make it hurt more and don't solve anything."

"But there's nothing to solve, Boss. She's gone and there's nothing more."

"Oh but you said it yourself, there is something more."

"What?"

"The warpath."

Tony squinted at Gibbs for a moment and then nodded.

"You're a smart man, Boss. I'm going to crash on your couch now."

Gibbs nodded and watched his senior agent as he trudged slowly up the stairs.

"Goodnight, Anthony," he said softly. Then picking up the bottle from the worktable, he took a swig of his own. As the liquid burned down his throat, he whispered softly, "Goodnight, Ziver."


End file.
